


anyone's ghost

by fragileanimals



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brainwashing, M/M, we going [plane emoji] winter soldier au!!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22931530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragileanimals/pseuds/fragileanimals
Summary: As Will fights to catch his breath, he notices that in the struggle the Boche’s cap has been knocked askew, exposing his face to the night air. He avoids looking at him directly at first, keeping the man pinned to the frozen earth as he searches with one hand for his discarded bayonet, trying to avoid thinking about how this will end.When he finally does look, the face staring back sends him reeling.(Or: Will, like everyone else, thinks Blake's dead. Until he meets him on the battlefield, eight months later. Loose Winter Soldier!AU.)
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 26
Kudos: 66





	1. names of collisions in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> just a few disclaimers:  
> \- while i did my best to research this i am a scientist and not a historian so pls be gentle  
> \- however!!!! glaring errors and just embarrassing mistakes pls let me know about so i can fix them  
> \- thats it  
> \- thank you mr locicero for your mammoth thesis on the battle of passchendaele, bet you never thought a dumbass like me would be skimming it in order to write gay fic but here we are babey  
> \- thank you to lau (blakeisbaby) for being the sweetest and most supportive beta!!

Will Schofield lowers his head under the moon-bright sky, dragging his boots from the mud for what feels like the thousandth time tonight. Nearly three hours of painstaking progress over frozen terrain is beginning to take its toll on his muscles, and his soles ache as they crunch over the rotting duckboards. The night air is alive with the ugly melody of thousands of men making the same arduous progress, a harmony of dissatisfaction.

They’ve been marching toward the jumping-off point for hours now, having left as soon as supper had touched their bellies. The hot rations would have been a rare treat if it hadn’t been such an obvious apology— but if there’s one thing the staff know by now, he thinks grimly, it’s how to send men into an impossible situation with the least possible resistance. He imagines them standing at GHQ, clean and in a proper building, huddled around a map of the tiny Passchendaele salient saying, _At least let them die with food in their bellies._

Despite General Rawlinson’s efforts to cast a positive light on tonight’s events, pessimism reigns in the muttering around him. The geniality that normally follows supper is wearing off, and conversations trail off around him as fatigue takes its place. But the theme hangs heavy in the air around them, if unspoken— the same question weighing on Will lately. _What the hell are we still doing here?_

It’s been nearly three weeks since the conclusion of the battle proper— yet despite the valiant protests of more than a few officers, here they are, trudging hours in the direction of the Flemish village of Westrozebeke instead of bedding down in their tents for the night. He huffs out a cloudy breath and tucks his chin into the hem of his woollen balaclava, attempting to clear both bitterness and anticipation from his mind.

His efforts are soon interrupted by the splash of icy muck on his legs. He sucks in an involuntary gasp through his teeth: every droplet feels like a tiny needle shoved through the fabric of his trousers. 

“Goddamn boards,” someone directly behind him swears, and Will turns to see the man responsible. Private Jacobs, balanced precariously on one knee, wavering like he might fall at any moment into the muddy ditch below. He’s more than halfway there, one boot stuck fast between two planks. He struggles to rise, but the boards shift with him each time he does, sending up splashes of dirty water and preventing him from balancing. 

“Oi, what’s the hold-up?” comes a shout from further back. The men in line behind Jacobs begin to shift impatiently, while those ahead of Will are moving along without them, but Will ignores both. Jacobs appears faintly surprised when he offers him his hand, but grasps it gratefully and allows himself to be hauled to his feet.

“God _damn,_ ” Jacobs mutters, once upright again. He adjusts his rifle over his shoulder, wiping clean the places where the butt had touched mud. “Sorry, Schofield.”

“It’s all right,” says Will, not unkindly, with a gesture toward his own mud-caked boots. “Seems unavoidable.”

“Yeah,” Jacobs mumbles, and with a nod both men resume their separate, silent trudges. 

He’s hardly the first Will’s seen tumble into the muck tonight— the urgency, the heaviness of their guns and packs, and the poor condition of the duckboards have tripped more men than he can count. He’s had a few close calls himself, and, were he inclined to superstition, he might wonder whether the Belgian soil intended to send them back the way they came. 

But he isn’t, so he doesn’t. After so long in the meaningless struggle over yards of dirt, he has little faith in the metaphysical. If Blake were here, he would most certainly have something cheeky to say about it— but that’s neither here nor there.

Will pushes his face from his memory and keeps on slogging.

They reach the jumping-off line a little past eleven, as best as he can tell. It’s obvious from the dragging boots that Will’s not the only one spent from hours of struggling through the thick mud, and it is with no insignificant apprehension that they survey the land between themselves and the enemy. The moon hangs above them in its full, waxy glory, washing the treeless landscape in light so bright it might as well be daytime. The pit in Will’s stomach deepens. If by some luck the Boche haven’t already heard them squelching along, they’ll be easily visible to any patrol.

He possesses no watch, but by the uneasy shifting of men scattered throughout the practice trenches and shell holes it is clear that zero hour draws near. B Company is unlucky enough to be among the skirmishers at the very front of the brigade, but at least this shell hole affords some cover; some of the other poor bastards are laid flat out under the moonlight for God and the enemy to see. 

“Reckon Fritz knows we’re here?” whispers the fellow wedged in beside Will to his mate in the next hole. Though the comment had not been directed at him, Will looks up at the full, bright moon, and snorts. _Morituri te salutant,_ he thinks, bitterly, in the direction of headquarters.

It surprises him lately, the bitterness that flares in his chest. He’s experienced dissatisfaction toward his commanders before, certainly. On countless occasions. But this is different, a slow buildup over resentment over the past months, angry roots curling around his lungs, his heart, unfurling in his words and deeds. He suspects whatever ugliness lives within him had been planted the day he’d left Blake lying in the dry French grass.

Moments like these, he has a particularly difficult time remembering exactly what — and whom — he’s fighting for.

The assault begins in silence, perfectly on time.

Mercifully, by the time B & D Companies approach the forward outpost line, the moon has slipped behind a large cloud, allowing them to pass in temporary anonymity toward their respective targets. For a few minutes, the only sounds are the thuds of boots on the frozen earth and the breathing of men as they inch onward, keeping as best they can in the shadows. Will’s mind goes clear and cold, as it always does at moments like these— devoid of thought beyond the next placement of his feet and the hammering of his heart against his ribs. He does not think of his family, or of his life. He most certainly does not think of Blake.

They make it three quarters of the way to Southern Redoubt before the night is broken up by beams of red, green, and golden lights. A collective shudder runs through Will’s platoon — too early — and the sounds of rifle and MG fire tears the quiet in two. 

Will swallows an oath, breaking into a run alongside dozens of others. No sense in creeping once you’ve already been spotted. They run strange and hunched, doubled over on themselves to better protect vital organs. A shout goes up among the men of B Company as they spur themselves onward, and the blood pounds in Will’s ears and throat as he races toward the redoubt, each footfall bringing him closer either to victory or to death. Every moment he anticipates a spray of gunfire to send the earth at his feet flying, but it doesn’t come.

The sudden collision with the ground knocks the air from his lungs. For a moment it’s all he can do to lie there gasping on his belly, trying to avoid the boots tramping by his head. And then a terrible, instinctual fear of injury seizes him, and before he can think to check whether his bayonet is intact he swings into a sitting position, shaking hands running along his bones. 

He prods flesh and joints alike, relieved to find his uniform free of blood. Sometimes, he’s learned, the initial shock of pain can be unreliable, can be drowned out by adrenaline or distraction. The slow spread of blood, however, always tells the truth.

Everything seems in place until his fingers reach his left ankle, and pain blooms bright behind his eyelids. He gives himself a moment before rotating the joint, hissing in a sharp breath through his teeth. Major bones intact, as far as he can tell, but he’s given it a good roll.

Unfortunately, time to properly bind it is a luxury he lacks. With every moment his platoon passes him by, and by the sounds of it, reinforcements aren’t coming anytime soon. In a moment he’ll be a sitting duck among the wounded and the corpses. Bracing himself against the slick grass, he sucks in a breath and holds it. _One, two, three,_ he thinks, and the ankle throbs in time with his pulse. _Get up._

Yet amid the sporadic fire and terror, he can’t seem to make himself move.

A hand reaches down into his line of vision. He startles, follows the hand to the wrist, up the arm and shoulders to Lieutenant Gordon’s mud-spattered face.

“All right, Schofield?” In the chaos Will can only distinguish the words by reading his lips. The other man’s usual easy grin is absent from his face, and his dark brows knit together as he looks Will over in concern. Then, “You hit?”

Will, still dazed, can only shake his head. 

Gordon squints, looking over his shoulder in the direction of the redoubt. “We need to go, then. It’s about to be a bloodbath out here.”

Will takes the proffered hand and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. The pain in his ankle screams with even the smallest pressure, but at least he’s upright. 

“Thank you,” he tries to say, once they’re on the move again, but the words stick in his throat. 

They fall in with a passing cluster of men. Wil’s injury slows him substantially, but he grits his teeth and bears down, each stride carrying him further toward Southern Redoubt. As it always does at moments like these, time enters a strange dimension. He could have been running for two hours or thirty seconds.

As they draw near, dark figures flood the landscape before them, swarming out from the fort like rats. Several dozen of the enemy, pouring out to meet the British in the open land. Around him bodies begin to collide, and under the constant barrage men holler in English and German as they grapple with one another.

He barely has time to register the form hurtling toward him before the impact sends him into the trunk of a nearby. For the second time tonight he ends up prostrate on the frozen ground, gulping air like a fish. He fumbles for his rifle, only to find to his dismay it’s been knocked several meters away. Ignoring his body’s complaints, Will scrambles to his feet, and the Boche mimics his movements, each of them equidistant from the discarded gun. For a moment they simply stand, watching one another as sparks burst overheart; the other man’s cap is pulled low, hiding his face.

The moonlights flashes cruelly off his silver belt buckle as he darts for the bayonet, spurring Will into action. They reach the rifle at the same moment, but he manages to knock the enemy soldier away, sending him stumbling back into the dirt. As the other man goes down, he kicks out a leg, which lands in just the right position to take advantage of Will’s weak ankle. With an involuntarily cry, Will lands beside him, hard. For several long seconds they each clamber to overpower the other, but neither manages the upper hand for more than a moment.

Though the Boche is several centimeters shorter than Will, he’s quick, and slippery as a fish. Will can’t seem to get a handle on him; no sooner does he close a hand around the man’s wrist or upper arm than is it snaked away again, socked into one of his soft parts. If he survives the night, his body will be a purple glory by sunrise. 

The world fades beyond his line of sight, the surrounding battle fading but for the guttural breaths of the soldier under his hands and the blood in his ears. Both are beginning to tire, sweat rolling from them like raindrops, muscles screaming— and a small part of Will wonders, briefly, if it might not be easier to simply lay back in the mud.

But then his opponent reaches just a bit too far, lurches in a way that overextends him ever so slightly, and Will seizes the opportunity as though it’s the last that may ever come. Using nearly all his remaining strength, he drags the soldier down, down below him, pinning him with his full weight. He swings his leg over the other man’s torso, managing to remain seated even despite his wild bucking. 

As he fights to catch his breath, he notices that in the struggle the soldier’s cap has been knocked askew, exposing his face to the night air. Will avoids looking at him directly at first, searching around with one hand for his bayonet, knowing how this will end.

When he finally does look, the face staring back sends him reeling.

It’s the face of a ghost. That’s his first thought, dumb and half-formed— he, William Schofield, is dead, and has been granted the ability to see his fellow dead. But that can’t be right, he realizes, as every ghost he’s ever heard of in books or around the campfire have been little more than shadow, more a wish than a reality. Merely echoes of their former selves, pale and faded. While this man is certainly pale, he struggles under Will with the weight and the fury of a living human being.

If not the face of a ghost, then the soldier wears the face of a memory, one Will has striven to bury since early April. One he hasn’t seen in the better part of a year and never thought to see again, but still a face he’d know anywhere, across the world or in the dark. 

Blake’s face.

Like something out of his grandfather’s dusty stack of penny dreadfuls, the German soldier wears his features perfectly, from the untidy mop of brown hair to the full, red lips. The eyes, nose, ruddy cheeks all sit in the appropriate locations— yet something is missing, like a portrait out of focus, just grainy enough to be gruesome.

“My God,” Will chokes out, feeling like he might be sick. He can’t help but lurch back— but this is just the hesitation the Boche has been waiting for, and he seizes on Will’s horror to throw him off, surging up to reverse their positions. 

Even as the frozen earth digs into his spine, struggling is the last thing on Will’s mind. He can only stare as Blake’s familiar face bends over him, his mind unable to reconcile the body he’d left in France with the living, breathing enemy before him. Despite himself, he can’t stop himself from searching his face, seeking out the known slope of his nose, the tiny scar beneath his chin from razor wire, the slight cant of his bottom lip to one side.

When the other man — he can’t think of him as Blake, not yet — finally returns his gaze, Will’s blood turns icy. It’s the eyes, he realizes, that make him grotesque— the color he remembers well, but the expression in them is all wrong. Not a trace of recognition brightens them; they offer no hint of either his gentle smile or childish pout. Without that warmth, his entire aspect is pale and cold as a winter brook. 

Will’s mouth falls open, though whether to speak, shout, or cry out he does not know. As soon as he opens his mouth, the other man jams a hand into his windpipe, and with a cold shock of dread he realizes what’s about to happen.

“Blake,” he pleads, but the hand around his throat is more solid than steel, and the name comes out garbled.

He makes a desperate grab for the bayonet, but Blake kicks it beyond reach, tightening his thighs around Will’s midsection and arms. Even so, Will manages to wrest one arm free, digs his nails into the back of Bl hand so deep they draw blood, but this fails to evoke even the smallest reaction. Under the German spotlights, Blake hardly flinches.

Will’s heart stutters thickly in his breast, beginning to suffer from the lack of air. For all the familiarity in Blake’s face he is a stranger now, foreign and cruel. Stars burst at the edge of his vision, and soon Will is as incapable of drawing a breath as he is of making himself understand. In a last, desperate bid, he shuts his eyes, begs Blake to leave him as he sometimes still must in the night— but this time, when he opens his eyes, Blake remains. This time, it’s everything around him that grows cloudy.

 _“Blake,”_ he tries again, prying with clumsy fingers at the hand around his throat, to no effect. Exhausting his last gasp of air, his fingers fall limp as Blake’s face, too, begins to fade. He can feel his body slowing but holds his blank gaze as long as he can. Then,

 _Tom,_ he says, to the dark.


	2. names like tombstones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will dreams, and as he dreams, he drifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope no one is looking for a legitimate medical explanation for blake’s survival, because i dont have one. no thoughts head empty
> 
> thanks so much to lau (blakeisbaby) for beta-ing!!!!!

Will dreams, and as he dreams, he drifts.

_A cool breeze wafts past his cheek, ruffling his hair, and he suppresses a sigh of contentment at the achingly tranquil day before him. At the horizon, a robin’s-egg sky meets impossibly green grass, only interrupted by the tender spring buds that stretch toward the clouds._

_“Scho,” comes a familiar voice, and he turns to find Blake, bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, standing on the steps of the farmhouse, his rifle slung carelessly over his shoulder. “Look what I found,” he continues, merry as a child, extending a closed fist before him. At Will’s questioning glance, he slowly opens his fingers, revealing the fresh cherry blossom cradled in his palm. Plucking it up by the stem, he grins, holds it out for him to see. “This one’s got six petals.”_

_A smile tugs at Will’s lips. “Don’t they all?” he asks, just innocent enough to be goading, and feels laughter build his gut at Blake’s chagrin._

_“No, five,” he says, squinting at Will like he’s an idiot, as though it’s the easiest thing in the world. He examines the bloom, twirling it slowly between his thumb and forefinger. “But this one’s got six,” he muses. “Poor thing, there must be something wrong with it.”_

_Before Will can ask just what that might be, the placid scenery darkens, as though a drab blanket has been pulled over the sky. Blake’s eyes have barely met his own before the scream of machinery splits the air, and Will whips his head around to see the ragged barn in flames._

_When he turns back, Blake’s torso is leaking red. “There must be something wrong with it,” Blake says again. High-pitched and scared, hands pressed over the wound._

_“No, no, no!” Will scrambles toward him, arms outstretched. But every step he takes shifts Blake backward that much farther— every inch he gains puts him another fraction too far. “Nothing’s wrong, Blake,” he pleads. “Come here.”_

_“Scho,” Blake says, fear spreading over his sweet features, but he stumbles farther away, disappearing into the darkened house. “Schofield!”_

_And on some level Will knows it’s useless, knows by now there’s nothing left to find, but still he follows him in. “Blake!” he calls, as smoke from the burning plane begins to fill the room. “Where are you?”_

_“Will!” the younger man bleats, from a neighboring room. The smoke thickens, and Will presses his sleeve to his mouth, already gagging._

_“Tom!” he cries, his free hand wavering wildly in the air before him, but the door has disappeared in soot. Blake continues to call out, heartbreakingly near, but each time Will opens his mouth more ash pours in. He gasps and gasps, but, as it does every time, the smoke coats his lungs and then his eyes, leaving him alone and enveloped in silent grey._

Reality returns slowly, invading the soft dark of Will’s dreams. By the time he’s half-conscious, the nightmare has eased into something gentler, the only interruptions an occasional voice or rustle of motion. With his mind heavy from sleep and the soothing sway of his body, he’s reluctant to fully wake— it’s only when his head knocks against something solid that he gasps, eyes flying open.

For several frightening moments he’s completely disoriented, unable to situate himself in space and time. He finds himself on his back, one man in a sea of stretchers, and he clutches the side-bar as he searches the surrounding land for any hint of familiarity. 

Then, “Sorry, mate,” comes a Scottish burr, the one that had slipped into his dream. Will cranes his neck to see a short, study man at his feet, holding on to one end of his stretcher. “You can thank him for that.” He nods toward someone out of Will’s line of vision, presumably the one handling the end of the stretcher by Will’s head.

_Ah._

Will tips his head back. Blinks until Belgian dawn comes into focus over him, painting the sky in colors too gentle for the groaning of men around him. 

The stretcher jostles again and he suppresses a groan of his own. Every movement of the bearers seems to uncover a new wound, prodding bruises in places he hadn’t been aware he had. 

“What happened?” he asks, finally, dry throat creaking with the effort. His memory’s slow to return this morning, but a hazy picture of artillery fire and a mad dash through open fields is beginning to take shape in his mind. 

“A bloody massacre, that’s what happened,” says the Scot, his lips pressed into a grim line. “Absolute fucking disgrace.” A moment later, motioning toward his neck, “What happened to you?”

Will’s brow furrows. Seeing his confusion, the Scot points to Will’s throat, this time— Will raises one hand hesitantly to find with a few gentle prods a ring of small bruises around his neck.

Another man might feel relief, even gratitude for such a narrow escape, but all Will feels is tired. “I don’t remember,” he says, softly. 

The Scot’s frown deepens, but before he can reply the man at the head of the stretcher twists half-around. “Don’t worry, mate,” he says, encouragingly. “They’ll patch you up back at camp.”

Will hums noncommittally, knowing the largest of his bruises will remain for weeks, and the throbbing ankle even longer. He can’t say he’ll miss the fight, but he’s had enough injury for a lifetime. 

“Not far now,” the Scot agrees.

Will feels a bit guilty, allowing them to cart him around when the only thing really wrong with him is a twisted ankle— all he needs, really, is a sturdy crutch. But his limbs weigh heavy on the canvas, his thoughts thicker than molasses. And under everything, the faint yet irrepressible sense that he’s forgetting something.

It’s not an unfamiliar feeling— since the Somme, his memory has grown increasingly unreliable. Forest paths, fields that would have been easy recalls for him two, three years ago come with greater difficulty now, so much so that he’s taken to writing things down when he has the paper to spare. It’s why he’d needed Blake, one of so many reasons he’d needed him, to navigate the maps—

A wave of realization breaks over him. 

_Blake._

He swings himself upright so quickly he throws the man at the front off balance.

“Blake,” he says, frantically, locking eyes with the Scot.

“What?” 

“My friend,” he says. “Tom. Tom Blake, I saw him—“

“Easy, now,” soothes the other man, brows tipping together in concern. “If he’s made it through, he’ll be here with us or waiting for us at camp.”

“No, no— you don’t understand,” Will says, shaking his head. Fear spreads over him like cold water. “He was with the Germans.” 

“What d’you mean, with the Germans?” The man at the front cranes his head to look back at him. “Like a captive?”

“I—“ It hadn’t occurred to him, but Blake clearly had not been himself. Just the memory of his face, so devoid of recognition is enough to send a shudder through him. “Maybe, I’m not sure,” he manages. “He didn’t know me.”

The Scot’s ashy brow furrows at the naked panic on his face. “Easy, there,” he says again, exchanging a long look with the other stretcher bearer. But Will’s heart is beating too fast, thrumming in quick terror under his ribs. His chest heaves as if he’s run the length of the front line.

“We can’t know anything until we get back to main camp,“ the Scot continues, firm but kind. He places a reassuring hand on Will’s good leg. “And maybe not for a while after. Whatever’s happened to your friend has already happened, nothing we can do about it.” 

It’s all Will can do to _not resist_ as the Scot motions for him to lie back. He fumbles with clumsy fingers at his collar, desperately needing air; when he can’t find the button, he simply yanks the fabric with such force it rips. His hand scrabbles blindly then, seeking out the chain tucked beneath his shirt to worry between his fingers. The metal, warmed by his skin, offers only a fraction of the comfort it usually does. He closed his eyes, forcing his breaths to slow.

Even as he tells himself the story of the previous night, some tiny part of him still doubts despite the aches he has to show for it. It torments him far worse than any sprained ankle, any punch— this thought that Blake was alive, hurting and in foreign hands, and he hadn’t known, hadn’t done anything. He’d take the bruises a hundred times over than remember Blake’s cold eyes in the moonlight, white hands around his throat.

He’ll find him, Will promises himself as the stretcher carries him toward camp. He’ll find Blake, and whatever he may or may not remember, Will will make him. And if he can’t, he will ensure at the very least Blake’s not alone. 

_I’m coming, Blake,_ he promises, closing his eyes. 

As the Scot — who introduces himself as Fitz — had alluded, camp is indeed a grim sight. Will’s hardly glanced at before he’s sent to triage; as he’s not bleeding freely or missing a limb, he’s given a blanket and a mostly-unmuddied spot on the grass to wait his turn. 

He doesn’t mind. There’s a bite in the air but it’s quieter here, and he feels slightly less guilty taking up space with a bum ankle when there are men in the main tent with bellies full of shrapnel. 

Fitz leaves him with a firm handshake and the promise to ask around about a captive Englishman by the name of Blake. Though Will doubts very much that he will find anything, much less be able to find Will again if he did, the knot in his stomach loosens ever so slightly. At the very least, if something happens to him, someone else knows about Blake.

By the time he’s been examined, bandaged, and fitted with a crutch, it’s almost midday. Though he’s had no food since the previous supper, and his ankle aches in time with his heart, Will forgoes the mess tent to make his way to the camp record-keeper.

He clears his throat several times before the harried staff notices him, and even then the older man says nothing, eyeing Will hawkishly over the frame of his glasses.

“Hello,” Will says, haltingly, when the silence becomes awkward. “I’m looking for—“

“Name?” the man interrupts.

Will hesitates. “Blake,” he says. “Thomas Blake. Lance Corporal, 8th Battalion, East Surrey Regiment.”

After so many months, the name feels strange in his mouth. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s spoken Blake’s name aloud since April. 

After a prolonged search through the metal filing cabinet and ensuing shuffle of papers, the staff clears his throat. “I have a Lance Corporal Thomas Blake listed KIA, 6 April of this year, aged nineteen. Awarded the General Service Medal posthumously for unusual valour in rescuing a comrade from certain death.” His voice is a little more grave than before. “This the man you’re looking for?”

Will hesitates. “Yes,” he says. Steeling himself, “I wondered if you could tell me whether there have been any additions to his file. Recent additions.”

The staff frowns. “Additions of what kind?”

“I don’t know,” Will says. It’s true, he doesn’t have a clue what might be there, or why. It’s possible, he suspects, someone else might have recognized Blake as early as this morning. “Just— if you could please look.”

“His file says KIA in April of this year.” The staff folds his hands over Blake’s file, patronizing. 

“I know what his file says,” Will grits out. He stops, hating the desperation that creeps into his tone. “If you would just check—”

The staff raises his hand, shuffles some more papers. “No recent mentions,” he says, finally. “At least, none here.” 

Will grips his crutch handle so hard the wood creaks. After a moment, he asks, “What of the captured Germans?”

“What of them?” asks the staff, looking increasingly annoyed.

“I’m looking for someone,” Will says. Hoping he won’t be pressed further, or have to explain he’s searching for a dead man. “An English captive. I thought— he might have been brought in with them.”

The staff plucks a sheet of paper from the top of a precarious pile, humming under his breath as he quickly scans it. 

“I have here a record of 112 Germans captured on December 1st, but no information on the presence of an Englishman among them,” he says, finally. Looking up, “We do have several yet unidentified. Uncooperatives, or men without proper identification. You might start there.”

Will releases a breath. “Where can I find them?”

“Injured will be in triage or surgery,” he says, “The others, under guard by the north road.” He gestures behind him with one thumb.

“Thank you,” Will says, quickly, and the canvas flaps swing shut before the staff can open his mouth in reply. So he doesn’t hear the grumble that passes the man’s lips at the rush of cold air— but neither does he see his curiosity as he cracks open the file in his hands, peers for a moment at Blake’s youthful portrait before replacing it with a sigh. 

Will picks over the wounded first, much to the aggravation of the field surgeons and orderlies. He tries to be as unobtrusive as possible, but that’s only so feasible when one’s reliant on a crutch in narrow quarters such as these. Sticking to the perimeters as much as possible, he nonetheless attempts to look each soldier full in the face, to be sure he misses no one. 

Some look back. A handful even have the wherewithal to meet his gaze, but none with eyes just the right shade of blue. 

Once, as he reaches the far edge of one surgery tent, he lingers over a soldier with dark brown hair too long and finds his wrist snatched by the young soldier in the opposite cot. He’s in bad shape, half his head covered with a weeping bandage, breath coming jerkily in that way that means he’s not long for this world.

“Art,” he gasps, when Will turns to him to see brown eyes alight with incoherent wonder. “Is that you? You’re alive!”

“No, no,” Will protests, quickly. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else”

“No, I know you,” the other man insists, tightening his grip on Will’s wrist, dragging him closer. “You’re alive, Art, you bastard! Why didn’t you tell me?” His eyes begin to fill, face feverish with emotion, and Will’s throat tightens.

“I’m not him,” he says, still striving for gentleness despite his rising anxiety. Working harder now to extricate his wrist. The man’s grip is surprisingly strong; he must be using that very last burst of strength. “I’m sorry, I’m not your Art. Please let go.”

“Where have you been?” the man begs, as though he hadn’t said anything. Half-sobbing, “I have so much to tell you.” 

“Let go,” Will says, louder now, his lungs pulled tight. Several orderlies look his way.

“Don’t leave me,” the dying soldier pleads. “Art!” he cries out, as Will finally manages to wrench himself away, and the purity of his desperation sends a hot knife through Will’s heart, but he keeps walking, doesn’t stop until he reaches open air. 

Leaning heavily on his crutch, he takes several heaving breaths, holding them until the dark spots at the edge of his vision fade. _Jesus._ It’s no use, he thinks. There’s nothing for him here. He’s made his way through most of surgery, and he’d seen the men passing through triage earlier if Blake’s at camp, he’s not here.

He’ll have to make his way to the captured men, but he can’t go on like this much longer, starving and sleepless and strung out on hope. At the very least, he needs to eat.

The trek to the mess takes double the time it would have taken him uninjured, but he makes it there just as the sun begins its slow descent toward evening. For once the field stew smells mouth-watering as he waits in line, but once he sits down with a bowl, he finds himself without the desire to eat. 

The last time anything had passed his lips, Tom Blake had been dead and buried under anonymous dirt in France. And now here he is, less than twenty-four hours later, and the world’s turned on its head. The thought turns his stomach, but Will forces himself to swallow the minimum spoonfuls required to keep himself on his feet, washing it down with the battery acid that passes for coffee. The meager ration of bread he tucks away for later, and he’s back on his feet a mere handful of minutes after sitting down. 

The captive holding area isn’t far, and he manages the trip without excessive trouble. As the recorder had indicated, the captive Germans number roughly a hundred, and he finds them an easier group to scan thanks to their skew toward fair hair. As had happened in the medical tents, the odd dark head catches his eye now and again, and his breathing hitches— but each time it’s a false flag, a deception formed by his own hopes. 

The English guards eye him warily at first, but he must appear either entirely desperate or entirely unthreatening, because they allow him to pass through unimpeded.

Some of the Germans call out to him from where they lounge on the ground, a harsh chattering of syllables, but he comprehends nothing and pays them no mind. Some spit in the direction of his boots, but his singular purpose in this moment is to find Blake, to find him and keep him close, and they capture no more of his attention than an ant does from an elephant. By the time he approaches the fringes of the captives he’s nearly face-blind, feeling as though he must have examined the whole male half of Europe by now.

He clenches the handle of his crutch, unable to quell the trembling in his hands. If Blake isn’t here, he’s lost to him, for all the chance he has of finding him again. 

_Please,_ he thinks.

There are only a handful of men left, and Will’s contemplating simply sinking to his knees in exhaustion when his eyes land on a figure sprawled out a few meters away in the frozen grass. At all once, the world descends into silence.

The curve of Blake’s body in sleep is as known to him as his own heartbeat, and Will’s stomach twists sharply to see him splayed out so familiarly, his head tipped sideways, pillowed on one arm. 

It’s Blake, all right. He’s thin too thin, and his face has lost the puppy fat that had made him appear so childish. The months since April have cost him his softness and his color; the Boche uniform makes a mockery of his sweet face. But it’s him. If he hadn’t been sure last night, Will knows now, just from proximity, all the way deep into his bones. It’s _him._

He’s moving before the intent to do so registers. He doesn’t think of the danger, doesn’t hear the Boche jeers as he hobbles past— doesn’t even care, really, if Blake still harbors homicidal intent. He just needs to see his face. 

Blake is unaware of his approach, dozing uneasily in the grey afternoon light. A lump the size of an egg discolors his forehead. With those blank eyes closed, mouth bunched in sleep, he’s adjacent to the boy Will remembers.

Ignoring the pain that shoots up his leg, Will discards his crutch to crouch at his side. A few of the German soldiers watch disinterestedly, but most ignore him completely.

He takes several long minutes just to look at him. To trace the shape of the fine nose, full mouth he remembers, take in the new hollows in his cheek and under his eyes, the overlong, matted hair. He hardly dares to breathe, fearing one movement will wake him from this dream and into a world where Blake no longer exists.

With infinite care, he extends a single finger, places it lightly on the cuff of Blake’s tunic, the hand that lies along his side. He can’t bring himself to touch the chapped skin, noticing the recent splits at Blake’s knuckles. A memory of pain shivers along his own cheek.

“Blake,” he says, softly, unable to help himself.

Though he’d been halfway expecting it, even hoping for it, he startles back when Blake’s eyes open. For the barest moment, Blake’s expression is unguarded and Will thinks he spies something like recognition in him.

But Blake’s expression clouds over and it disappears. To his dismay, that same absence he had seen the previous night comes into Blake’s eyes completely devoid of hatred, or disgust, or even fury. Just blankness. Will’s cold just to see it.

Then Blake begins to shout.

It’s German, too quick and too furious for him to grasp, but the meaning is clear. Will jerks back, quickly, but the damage is done. All Boche eyes are on him now, and one of the guards makes a movement toward them as Blake leaps to his feet. Will’s slower to rise, but this time Blake moves away from him, not toward. Their eyes don’t leave each other.

“Blake,” says Will again, helplessly. “It’s me. It’s Schofield.”

“What are you after, mate?” asks the nearest guard, but he barely hears him.

_“Was willst du?”_ Blake hisses. Even his voice is unknown now, but Will’s heart clenches at the familiar undertone, feels it reverberate in his chest. _“Lass mich in Ruhe!”_

His palms curl heavenward as Blake continues to step back, until he’s arm-in-arm with the other captives. Hot tears come to his eyes, blurring Blake in his vision until he’s only a dark smear, but he’s rooted to the spot. Can’t move until the Englishman who had first spoken to him tells him it might be best to move along. 

He doesn’t remember walking back to main camp or beyond— simply finds himself seated on the bank of the tiny stream that winds through camp. It’s hardly up to his knees at its deepest point, but the water runs clear where it isn’t frozen. Somehow the sound of it soothes him, flowing ever onward on the path of least resistance.

The availability of mirrors is scarce in the trenches, and often worse than useless. He can’t think of the last time he’s gotten a better image of himself than that reflected on the back of a spoon, so it’s a shock to see his own face ripple across the surface of the water. He’s never considered himself anything other than plain, always a little on the thin side, but recent months have aged him several years. His eyes can’t help but travel down to the fresh bruise on the underside of his jaw, the plum-colored marks that ring his Adam’s apple.

His physical injuries pale in comparison to the guilt in his eyes.

Some time later, the crunch of boots over the riverbank rouses him from his misery, and he lifts his head to find Lieutenant Gordon making his way toward him. Will swipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, returns the nod Gordon gives him as he settles beside him on the grassy bank, careful of his newly-bandaged arm.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, listening to the bubble of the stream as Gordon lights up a cigarette, passing another to Will.

“It’s almost nice out here, save for the wind,” says Gordon, squinting out over the water. The chilly air rustles his sandy hair as he leans over to offer Will the use of his lighter. Then, never one for small talk, “Saw the commotion over by the road. What was all that about?”

Will takes his time in answering, watching the flickering end of his cigarette send tendrils into the sky. He debates with himself briefly how much to reveal, but figures the more people know about Blake, the smaller the chance the British army will see fit to whisk him away.

“I found Blake,” he says, for the second time that day, exhaling a puff of air and smoke. “With the Germans. I was trying to speak to him.” 

“Blake.” Gordon frowns. Then, “Tom Blake? I thought he was dead. Back in April, during the whole mess with the Devons.”

Will inclines his head. “So did I,” he says, shortly. Takes a drag from his cigarette, already feeling the faintly calming effect of the nicotine as it hits his lungs. “He’s not. Boche picked him up.”

Gordon turns toward him. “What do you mean, the Boche picked him up?”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth.” He struggles with the next bit, knowing that speaking the words gives them a sort of permanence. “All I know is, I saw him last night, and he didn’t… recognize me.”

“Jesus,” says Gordon, slowly. “That’s who you were talking to?”

“Trying to,” Will says. “He wouldn’t speak to me— not in English, anyway. And I don’t speak German.” He digs his fingers into the freezing sand until he feels the grit under his nails. 

“Any idea what they did to him?”

“No idea,” Will says, miserably. “Whatever it was, he doesn’t know me.”

“Jesus,” Gordon repeats. A solemn quiet falls over the pair of them. Despite himself, Will’s grateful for the company— he’s always found the lieutenant’s company reassuring, and the man seems to have taken a liking to him, for whatever reason. 

“I had a mate like that,” says Gordon, then, delicately. “Spent some time in a Boche camp. Came home half out of his mind,” he says, eyes serious in the fading light. “Wasn’t his fault, of course, but it did a number on all of us to see him like that, I think.”

It takes Will several agonizing moments to gather the courage to turn to him, to ask the question he and Gordon both know needs answering. 

“What happened to him?” he asks, quietly. 

The sympathy in Gordon’s face tells him everything he needs to know. Will’s hands close around each other in his lap

“Blake’s your friend, yeah?” Gordon asks, then. Somehow, there’s a weight behind _friend_ that makes Will’s muscles tense, but the lieutenant’s eyes are free of judgement.

“He is,” Will replies, slowly.

“Then don’t give up on him,” Gordon says. With his good hand, he gives Will’s shoulder a squeeze. “You’ll regret it if you do.” His smile turns regretful. “Take it from someone who knows. There’s no telling, he might still be in there. Just might need to be coaxed out.”

Will returns the smile out of habit, but it doesn’t anywhere near reach his eyes. Gordon lets his hand drop and they return to their cigarettes, the smoke curling upward until it blends with the somber sky.

As it turns out, the lieutenant’s advice had been somewhat unnecessary. Will can’t stay away.

With his damaged ankle, there’s not much for him to do, and as boredom encroaches he finds himself traveling out of his way to pass by the north road. He tells himself it’s exercise, but he volunteers to fetch water, to deliver mail— anything that will take him there, anything that will get him in Blake’s vicinity. He doesn’t approach or attempt to speak to him again, not yet. For now he contents himself with the knowledge Blake’s alive, the odd meeting of eyes every now and again.

It is so much less than _enough._

He thinks several times of writing Blake’s elder brother, but each time finds himself overwhelmed by a loss for words. He starts five letters, ten, but each ends up with the heading scrubbed out, the stubby pencil replaced in his breast pocket. What can Will possibly say that will convey the depth of his guilt?

A few mornings in, when he’s made his meandering way to the road, the captives’ usual spot sits vacant. At first he thinks, impossibly, that he’s in the wrong place, but then he spies the meager stack of tents beside one of several transport lorries with Sarge standing beside.

Will’s nerves jangle as he limps over, seeking Blake in each transport but finding only unfamiliar faces.

“Schofield.” Sarge nods as Will approaches. His interactions with Will have been slightly less antagonistic since April, but only slightly.

“Where are you taking them?” Will asks. He knows he would do well to show greater deference, but the anxiety building in his chest precludes formality.

“Good day to you, too,” Sanders says. A subtle warning creeping into his tone, “To answer your question, Corporal, they’re going to be put to good use. Certainly don’t need ‘em here, eating our food and lazing about. Oi!” he calls, to one of the drivers. “What’s the holdup?”

Will’s body goes cold. Blake’s in one of those lorries, moments away from departing main camp — and Will — forever.

“They can’t go yet,” he says, all in a rush.

Sarge squints, turning to him. “Excuse me?”

“You can’t,” Will says. “You have to wait.”

“I have to do what now?” Sarge asks, tone beginning to creep into dangerous territory. He eyes Will as though he’s got not one but several screws loose.

“Blake’s in there,” Will gets out, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Lance Corporal Thomas Blake. You remember him?”

Sarge’s frown deepens. “Blake’s dead. You reported it yourself.”

“I was wrong,” Will says, quickly. The engine on one of the lorries roars to life, sending a spike of anxiety through him. “He’s alive. He was captured last night with the Germans.”

Sarge’s mouth opens in disbelief. “Schofield…”

“You have to believe me.” Will’s pleading now, only moments away from gripping Sarge’s collar. His gaze falls into the bed of one of the lorries, and for a moment he thinks he spies Blake’s blue eyes. It strengthens something within him amnesic or not, Will can’t lose him again. He _can’t_. “He’s in there. Blake’s in there. You have to believe me.”

Before Sarge can stop him, he’s ditched his crutch, clambered onto the back of the transport despite the way his ankle screams. He lifts back the canvas flap, allowing more light to filter in. “Back there, you see him?”

“I see someone who looks like Blake,” Sarge says, peering in skeptically. Then, “Blake!” he calls. “Lance Corporal Blake.”

Will chews the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He can’t look at Blake directly, but the silence is gut-wrenching.

“He’s injured, Sarge,” says Will, clambering back down. It’s not a complete falsehood. “He hit his head. He doesn’t know who he is.” 

When the sergeant doesn’t reply, he switches tactics, appealing to his sense of self-preservation. “Think of the scandal,” he says, “if it got out we sent one of our own to a labor camp.” He doesn’t miss the way the corners of Sarge’s eyes tighten at the thought.

“It would be on your head,” he continues, emboldened. Another transport truck starts up, and he decides, _To hell with it_. “I’ll tell everyone you knew. I’ll tell them you knew an injured soldier was in there, Englishman, and you did nothing.” 

Sarge scoffs at this. “I ought to throw you in there with them for insubordination,” he says, disgustedly. After a pause, “What exactly are you proposing I do?”

An internal battle wages several moments, then Will draws himself up to his full height. Forces every iota of solemnity into his expression. 

“Let me speak to the captain.”

Captain Howard, a grim sort of man on the best of days, appears more wan than usual as Will explains the situation to him. As Will explains the circumstances under which he had come across Blake, Howard leans further into his desk, as though requiring the support to keep him upright.

“I remember Lance Corporal Blake,” he says, when Will’s finished. “Good lad. It was a shame to have lost him.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “What is it you’re telling me? Blake’s not only alive, but here, in camp? And with the Germans?” He looks to Sarge. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of this?”

Sarge opens his mouth, but before he can answer, the captain turns back to Will.

“Who reported him killed?” asks the captain. “It was you, wasn’t it?” It’s more a statement than a question.

“Yes, sir.” Will swallows, hard. “I was there when he died.”

“But now you’re telling me he didn’t die,” says Captain Howard, “but has been with the Germans for the past eight months. Is that correct?”

“I’m as surprised as you are, sir.” Will shakes his head. “I know it’s difficult to believe, but I’ve seen him. He’s here.”

“We sent his effects home,” says Howard, seriously. 

“Yes, sir.” If Will could sink into dirt beneath his feet and be done with it, he would. He can feel the hot tears gathering in his eyes, at having to explain himself for the dozenth time, at the aches that travel all the way down to his bones. At Blake’s uncertain future. 

The captain sighs. “Is there anyone else who can speak to his identity?” 

Will frowns. “Sir?” 

“Anyone who remembers what he looks like. Would recognize him, other than Sergeant Sanders here.”

“Oh, yes— I’m sure of it,” Will says, though he isn’t sure at all. Blake had been both well-known and well-liked, but the turnover in the 8th has been high since spring, even without the previous night’s heavy casualties. “Lieutenant Gordon would remember him. And he has a brother in the 2nd Devons, a Lieutenant Blake.”

The captain’s expression eases infinitesimally. “What an unfortunate bitch of a situation,” he murmurs, tugging at his mustache. Sparse, Will thinks, from the constant strain of the past years. “Let me think.”

The tension is almost too much for him to bear; his head swims in the dark dugout.

“And you’re sure it’s him,” says Captain Howard, after a long minute.

Will nods, unable to speak.

The captain inclines his head toward Sarge. “Check this out, then remove him from transport.” To Will, he sighs, “Can’t very well send one of our own to a labor camp, confused or no.”

Will lets out a long exhale, slumping against his crutch. “No, sir,” he murmurs, weak with relief.

After the sergeant has gone, Captain Howard points to the ring of bruises just above Will’s collar. “Blake give you those?”

Will hesitates just a second too long, and the captain’s mouth tightens. 

“He’s confused, sir,” says Will, finally. “He didn’t know me in Passchendaele. He needs medical attention.”

“Don’t we all,” the captain murmurs. Then, “Is he otherwise able-bodied?” he asks. “Beyond…” He taps the side of his head.

Will bristles at the indelicacy but manages, “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The captain thinks a long moment. Then, “There’s a cabin we’ve been using for storage, roughly half a kilometer from here. Recent rains have caved the roof in and made a mess of things, but I’d like to use it again. It’s got good bones, just needs repair.”

Will blinks, caught unaware by the sudden change in topic. “With respect, sir, what does this have to do with Lance Corporal Blake or myself?”

“It’s to be his task,” clarifies the captain. “Both of your tasks. We can’t send him away, but we’ve got to do something with him until we can figure this out. As such, I’m placing you as his direct supervisor, Corporal. Are you prepared to manage that?”

Will’s heart leaps into his throat. “Yes,” he says, too quickly. “Yes, of course. Sir.“

“Good,” says the captain decisively. “He’ll be in your charge. Provided Sergeant Sanders can confirm his identity, you can collect him from medical tomorrow morning. I’ll have him put under temporary hold.”

For the first time in the past day, Will feels his breath come slightly easier. Not only would Blake be spared a labor camp, but he would be directly in Will‘s own care. 

“Thank you, sir,” he says, feeling all the emotion of the past day flood into those three words.

Captain Howard nods briskly, as if it’s nothing, this whole world he’s given him. Rounding his desk, he picks up the handful of papers he’d discarded upon their entry into the dugout, reseating himself in his chair. “Dismissed,” he says, eyes flicking back up to where Will stands rooted to the spot. “Get some rest, Corporal Schofield.”

As he heads for the low doorway leading back into the trenches, relief coursing through every blood vessel, every bone. Now, where no one of importance will see, Will allows the tears threatening to flood his eyes do as they will—

“One more thing, Corporal.” 

Will swipes at his cheeks, turns back.

“If he’s as confused as you make him out to be,” the captain says, face grave, “you had better take your sidearm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can have a little agents of shield reference. as a treat
> 
> please let me know what you think! all constructive comments are appreciated. <3 i recognize this chapter contains a great deal of exposition, but we are FINALLY going to see lots more of blake, and very soon. thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! i know this chapter is a lot of blah blah blah setup, but i guarantee there will be much more excitement, longing, and pining to come. oh, and did i mention, angst?
> 
> if anybody's interested, the setting is meant to be the night action of 1st december, 1917, which occurred a few weeks after the conclusion of the second battle of passchendaele. the 8th was indeed there, though i have fudged some of the details to put will there. it was, as somewhat indicated, a huge disaster that took a heartbreaking number of allied lives.
> 
> please let me know what you think! <3


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